At night a girl haunts my toilet.
I see the shadow of her
in the hallway, hear
the bathroom door open,
bare feet on cold tiles.
I have never seen her face
but in the mornings I
find clumps of her hair,
long black strands floating
in the water like tentacles.
She formulates into a shape,
stepping cyclically around my head,
seeping out of my mouth
until she becomes someone I accommodate,
a guest in my house.
I begin to leave halved figs in the sink,
place blankets and pillows
in the bath before bed.
I make sure there is enough toilet roll.
I use the downstairs toilet so as not to disturb her.
I wake to find the figs eaten,
the blankets heavy with shower gel,
footprints outlined in urine.
I wonder if she has ever learned to use a toilet.
She stays for two months,
small disturbances seeping to the rest of the house.
Her hair hangs from door knobs
and windows.
She begins to leave a trail of fig pulp,
spots of yellow urine on the floor.
Flies cluster round.
I keep bleach in by bedroom,
stumbling around, half asleep,
to clean up after her.
But one day she is gone.
The traces of her disappear,
the flies leave with her.
I stop putting figs in the sink.
I start to use the upstairs toilet again.
.
.
.